


the things we cannot say

by penceypineapple



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Gaang Learns How Zuko Got The Scar (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar) Gets a Hug, Zuko (Avatar) Needs a Hug, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko's Scar (Avatar), but its just sokka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penceypineapple/pseuds/penceypineapple
Summary: “Training accident?” Sokka says.A weak chuckle escapes his lips. “You really believed that?”Or: Sokka finds out how Zuko got his scar
Relationships: Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 386





	the things we cannot say

The darkness protects him like a blanket, gently wrapping around his head and soothing the memories that rage beneath it. The smell of smoke and burning flesh, the sound of his own screams, the taste of his salty tears, his uncle’s comforting hand on his shoulder. The horrors of the past dissolve into the darkness like a small ripple in the sea, and everything becomes grey. Muted. Nothing can hurt him anymore. This is his last chance at defending himself, the outside world (and all its happiness, chaos and despair), concealed by this hazy blanket of darkness. He is lost to the world. But he is safe. The darkness seeps through his mind, coating each memory in its hazy glow. And frame by frame, the memories continue to recede, thin fingers reaching out to grasp some elusive dream of peace.

“Zuko?” Sokka says.

But although he’s right next to Sokka, his mind is somewhere else. He is nothing but a constellation of memories, of dying stars, of ghosts of the past watching him mockingly from above. He is constantly hovering between present and past, but lately, the past has been winning. Lately, despite being in the public eye constantly and with a golden headpiece sitting in his hair, he is becoming increasingly lost to the world. He looks in the mirror and cannot recognise himself beneath the dark circles cradling his eyes, the pale, almost grey tone to his skin, and his hollowed cheekbones.

_Life is a balance,_ his uncle always tells him. But the more his uncle says this, the less he believes it. There is no balance in life, he’s since realised. For there are times when he doesn’t sleep for days on end, times when his hands don’t stop shaking, times when his mind is so foggy that he can’t string a sentence together. Sometimes, he would wake up in the night screaming and clutching the left side of his face. Although no words are ever exchanged, Sokka always seems to know what he sees in his dreams. _Fire._ _It’s pretty fucking obvious._

Yes, his friends try to help. They can sense something is wrong, but it’s something hazy and undefined, something they cannot articulate, something just beyond their grasp, beyond the scope of words. Sokka always comes the closest to piecing together the little fragments of evidence he’s spent his whole life unconsciously depositing into his interactions. During every conversation, Sokka’s eyes are always narrowed as if he’s in deep concentration, attempting to make sense of the senseless quirks of his behaviour; the constant apologising, the flinching at loud noises, the inability to maintain eye contact, the strong dislike for hugs. But at the end of every conversation, Sokka always looks more lost than he did when they started.

It’s his fault, for not being open enough. Although his uncle was always gentle with him regarding what happened _(“You don’t have to talk about any of this if you don’t want to, Prince Zuko”),_ part of him knows that he needs to open up to form genuine connections with people. But every time he tries, his lips can’t form the words. And he drifts further and further away from the world, with every day of silence that passes.

“Zuko, can you hear me?”

_Barely,_ he wants to say, for Sokka is on his left side. “Yeah. I’m sorry,” is what comes out instead, as he turns to face Sokka.

“Don’t be. You alright?”

It’s only now that his mind opens its gates back to reality, and he remembers where he is. Sitting upright in bed, covered in sweat, breathing coming out in ragged pants, right hand clutching his burning chest and left hand clutching his scar. It’s dark. He must’ve had a dream, but he can’t remember it now. All that’s left is a feeling of guilt, of numbness, clouding his mind like the shadowy blanket of memories bleeding through his consciousness.

_It wasn’t your fault,_ his uncle reminded him every night following his banishment. He’s back on the ship now, drifting along the empty arctic sea on a hopeless mission. He’s been here for a year, and although his uncle reminds him of hope, something deep inside him knows that his life will never be the same. That he’ll never be able to go home to his family. That the nightmares will never stop. That his fantasies of restoring his honour are nothing more than mere fantasies, and will dissolve into a pile of ash, drifting away with the wind.

_I just want to go home,_ he would whisper into his uncle’s shoulder, tears streaming down his cheeks _(“I know, Prince Zuko. I know”)._

Up close, Sokka’s eyes aren’t really blue. Grey decorates his irises, like the silvery waves crashing against the ship during storms, the cold wind stinging his cheeks and the dry air tightening his chest.

He sees his mother’s face like a reflection against the ocean, hazy and undefined, and he’s scared her image will continue to fade until only the sea is left. He can still make out her golden eyes that shine much like his own used to before the Agni Kai exposed him to the horrors of the world. And he’s hugging his mother again, small, child-like hands clutching onto the fabric of her clothes. He doesn’t even realise he’s saying goodbye ( _“Please don’t leave me”,_ he wants to scream, but his past self remains silent). Why do we only realise we’ve taken things for granted after they’re gone?

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, his mother’s face dissolving into the night. He’s stiff now, motionless, cold like a statue, as a final attempt at defending himself from the world’s prying eyes.

“You’re not,” Sokka replies, voice slicing through the night.

“I’m not,” he repeats, the image of Sokka growing blurry and hazy behind his left eye, until he dissolves into nothing but an empty shadow.

“Tell me why,” Sokka says, but his voice remains soft, hesitant, as if he were afraid of what the answer entails.

If only it were that easy. He’s tired now, and his pounding head leans back against the pillow. His body feels light and heavy at the same time, like he’s floating through the cold night air, and being pulled down into the depths of his mind.

His gaze flickers over to Sokka, and he opens his mouth, the ghosts of empty words dancing on his lips. Words that he knows he would never say out loud. He wants to grab those thoughts and crush them in his hands. His thoughts are hazy and transparent, like a bubble ready to pop. But his eyes soon turn away again, and the moment is lost, his detached gaze continuing to stare into the night.

It’s easier to talk when he isn’t looking at Sokka. He pretends he is alone. “It still burns,” he manages to say, hand still clutching his scar, tracing along the rough grooves of his skin as if that alone would be enough to soothe the ache of the long damaged nerves. “Sometimes.”

“Training accident?” Sokka says, repeating the rushed explanation for his injury he gave the Gaang one night, two years ago now. It’s strange how time passes seemingly on a linear path, but humanity’s experience of time constantly involves interactions between the past and the future.

A weak chuckle escapes his lips. “You really believed that?”

“I didn’t know what to believe.”

“It was my father.” He says the words before he can stop himself.

Sokka is silent for a few heartbeats. “Oh.”

“I spoke out of turn at a war meeting. He challenged me to an Agni Kai. I got on my knees and begged for forgiveness, but that obviously didn’t work out so well.”

He can feel Sokka shifting closer to him in the dark. “I’m so sorry,” Sokka says, and he can almost feel his breath brushing his cheeks. “I didn’t realise.”

“It changed me,” he continues, still unable to meet Sokka’s gaze. “It changed me in ways I never thought could change. After it happened, I was just so… _angry_. All the time. And I didn’t know how to stop it. Even after I joined your group, I was always anxious and paranoid. I still am, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could’ve been there for you.” _Please don’t feel guilty. There’s nothing you could have done,_ he wants to tell Sokka. For it’s true; this is something he has battled alone for years, and will continue to for the rest of his life.

“I don’t know. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

They sit there for a while, before Sokka pulls him into a hug. He’s tense and rigid at first, but soon he relaxes into Sokka’s arms, letting the tears spill down his cheeks as Sokka traces circles along his back.

“I love you,” Sokka whispers, as if his voice is heavy with his own tears.

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> ouch. this wasn't supposed to be that sad but here we are ;-;  
> thanks so much for reading, comments and kudos appreciated! <3


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